A Strange Celebration
by Gail Lucinda Autor
Summary: "You are cordially invited to attend a ball, to be hosted by the Malfoy family, in celebration of the fall of the Dark Lord". Hermoine Granger has no clue what to make of this invitation. This ought to be one interesting party. R&R! Short chapters. Sorry.
1. Prologue

She struck him.

The blow was fierce, and Draco Malfoy felt his temple throb where her knuckles had bruised him. She moved to hit him again, but this time he anticipated it. He was too quick for her, securing both her wrists and forcing them to her sides, even as she struggled against him.

"Granger," he ordered calmly. "Stop. Now." She curled her lip at him and tried to yank free, but he was too strong. "Granger!"

She stopped, but the hatred in her eyes increased. He would not have been surprised if her brown irises suddenly turned red. "Let go of me," Hermoine snarled. He complied, taking a large step back as he did so. She cast him one last vengeful glare, then stormed off, her soft spring-green skirts swirling around her, high heels click-clacking on the polished white tile.

Draco groaned and sank to the floor, cradling his head in his hands. His right temple was still throbbing and beginning to swell up. He gingerly probed the bruise with his fingertips and winced almost instantly.

Damn, that girl had an arm!

He thought ruefully of their third year and sighed. If only things could be as simple now as they had been then: he hated her, and she hated him. But then again, it had never been truly simple. He'd been raised to hate her, after all, and his destiny had always been a far cry from hers.

Sometimes he wondered if, had his childhood been different, they might've been friends. Probably. They were alike, after all, though she never would have admitted it. Then again, perhaps they weren't so similar. She was brave. He was a coward.

And she would never let him forget it.

He sighed, closing his eyes, picturing her again in that green ball gown. Such a color on her! So fresh and bright, so sweet and inviting, with that low, pointed neckline teasing him, tempting him, every time he looked at her. A more beautiful girl had never existed, surely. Throughout the evening he had been unable to stop himself from stealing frequent surreptitious glances at her. Even after she caught his eyes raking her form, he had been unable to help himself.

The celebration was just one of many, thrown by various groups and wealthy families, in the year or two since the war had ended. This particular one had been hosted by none other than the Malfoys.


	2. Chapter 1

_**Y**__ou are cordially invited to attend_

_A ball_

_To be hosted by the Malfoy family_

_In celebration of the fall of the Dark Lord_

_On this Friday evening at seven o' clock_

_In the ballroom of the Malfoy Manor_

_Formal wear._

Hermoine had almost dropped her coffee when she read the invitation.

Why the hell would the Malfoys, of all people, hold a _ball _"in celebration of the fall of the Dark Lord"? Hadn't they been some of his biggest supporters?

And furthermore, why would they invite _her? _

She set her coffee down and began pacing the kitchen of her tiny flat. It was located just above Flourish and Blotts, the bookstore on Diagon Alley which she now owned. She would have to get down and open it soon, but for now she needed to pace a good bit to calm her nerves.

The thought of going back to Malfoy Manor made her shiver. The scars Bellatrix Lestrange had carved into her arm —_Mudblood_ - -began to tingle, and the hairs on the back of her neck rose. How could she possibly return to that place? For a _ball, _of all things? It was madness.

Hermoine looked up at the clock. It was time to go open the shop, she realized in relief. A good day's work would calm her nerves.

And who should be waiting outside the front door but Draco Malfoy.

She bit back a rude "What are_ you_ doing here?" and quickly unlocked the door. It was a bookshop, after all, and scaring away customers was not good for selling books.

"Miss Granger," he greeted her politely. "Good morning."

"And to you, Mr. Malfoy," she replied as he took her hand and kissed it. "I trust you are well."

He shrugged. "Not particularly."

"Oh," she said softly. He continued into the store. It smelled of her, or she smelled of it; paper, old and new, and polished wood. "Well, may I help you find something today?" she asked courteously with her best business smile.

"I'm just here to browse, actually," he responded, then added, rather reluctantly: "And to be certain you got your invitation."

"I did, thank you," she answered, suddenly sounding stiff.

"Narcissa would like to know if you plan on attending." Draco sensed her discomfort easily (a man both blind and deaf could likely have done so) but pressed on.

"I haven't decided yet," she said carefully, turning to a shelf of books that was already perfectly in order and pointedly pretending to busy herself with it.

"Might I ask for what reason you are indecisive?" he inquired.

"Mr. Malfoy, surely you remember the things that were done to me in your home." She turned to him and drew back the sleeve of her robe, revealing the word forever engraved in her arm. _Mudblood._

"My aunt and the rest of my family, including myself, have wronged you deeply," he agreed, taking her arm and delicately covering the scars with the folds of her robe again. "Perhaps you will allow my mother and I to make it up to you?"

She drew her arm from his grasp gently but firmly. "As I said before, I have not yet decided. And another thing," she added, turning to face him and lifting her chin in a bold manner. Gone was the perfect businesswoman; here was Hermoine Granger.

He had to suppress a smile; the conversation before had been so tiresome. He'd been wondering where the girl he so remembered had disappeared to.

"Why would your family, of all people, be throwing a ball to celebrate the fall of the Dark Lord? We all know how you worshipped them, _Malfoy_." She dropped the mister and all but spat the name she had known him by for so many years.

"You are right to wonder, _Granger,_" was his response. "My mother cannot live without the respect of her peers, and she feels that this would be the best way to re-enter Wizarding society. Everyone who's anyone is invited, the rest of the Golden Trio included."

"As if you can live without the respect of _your _peers, Malfoy," she sneered.

"Perhaps you're right," he murmured distractedly, twisting a curl of her hair around his finger.

"Don't touch me," she ordered, her hand coming up to smack his wrist away, but it was already gone.

They stood in awkward silence for a moment before Draco spoke again. "Bellatrix is gone, Granger," he reminded her. "And if anyone dared hurt you, the Wizarding community would be on them like Dementors on a Quidditch match." A reference to their third year, and while the memory was not a good one for her, he swore he saw the corner of her lips twitch. It was clear to him that she was remembering punching him and probably wishing she could do so again.

"Memories are very good at keeping people away from places," she said darkly, turning back to her bookshelf.

"Still," he replied, inching close to her. "I would be honored to have you attend the ball."

"You mean Narcissa would be," Hermoine muttered darkly.

"_No, _Granger," he insisted. He was very close to her now, his lips a hair's breadth away from brushing her ear when he spoke, his voice a low, almost husky whisper. "_I _would be."

And then, with a swish of black robes and a jingle of the bells hanging over the door to the shop, he was gone.


	3. Chapter 2

**Author's note: this was a fun chapter to write. I hope you guys enjoy it :P Be sure to REVIEW after you READ, people! R&R=Read and Review, for those of you who didn't know. So do it, please! :D**

**I own nothing.**

**Oh, and also, I apologize in advance to any politicians who may be reading this. It's her view, not mine, like in the little disclaimers before the DVD about all the commentary stuff.**

Everyone had expected Hermoine Jean Granger to go into the Ministry line of work.

She had always known, however, that it wasn't for her, government. It was full of liars and idiots and people who would do anything to get their way. (Some called them 'politicians'.)

That life was not Hermoine's.

On the few occasions she had presented this view, responses had always been similar: she could change that if she chose to pursue a government career.

Hermoine, however, had had enough of war. She wanted a quiet job, something she could take pleasure in. She didn't care about the money. She just wanted to do something she would _enjoy _for a change.

The Ministry (whom she thought secretly grateful that she had not chosen to pursue a career with them) had had Flourish and Blotts fixed up after the war and gifted to her out of gratitude. Out of the many gifts they, along with a few wealthy families who had resisted, attempted to give her, this was the one she chose to accept.

She loved it. The warm, musty smell of paper of varying ages; the wooden shelves she polished twice a week in the evenings; the hardwood floors that creaked a little if you stepped in just the right places; the fireplace (set well back from the shelves, in an open place, with a grate in front of it so as not to risk harming the books) that she lit on cold days; the old sofas and squashy armchairs in varying colors and sizes.

Some of her customers came in just to talk and have a cup of coffee, which she was happy to brew for them; others came in for the sole purpose of curling up in one of the aforementioned squashy armchairs with a book. She didn't mind. She couldn't even remember how many times she had done the same thing as a child (and, admittedly, as an adult). Books were her great comfort in life, and she very much loved her job of sharing them with the world.

Even today.

The door opened with a great jangling of bells, jolting Hermoine out of the slightly stricken state Draco had left her in. She hurried to paste a helpful smile on her face and busied herself with her books.

The rest of her day was a flurry of activity. Next Monday Hogwarts term began again, and students were rushing in and out of the store like mad. One first year boy, a rather chubby young man who made her think, smiling, of Neville Longbottom, was so excited he forgot altogether to pay for his books and tried to walk out of the store with them. His mum, who had been chatting animatedly with Hermoine, had to chase him down and remind him that the train wasn't coming until Monday and he had plenty of time to pay for his purchases.

At last, her final customer left and Hermoine was able to lock up. She had a policy of never kicking people out at closing time; rather, she stopped letting people in then and let the people already inside finish up.

Sighing, Hermoine unlocked the door in the stockroom and climbed the stairs to her home above the shelves. The flat was cozy and comfortable, full of old, mismatched furniture that contributed to the warm atmosphere of the place. Tonight, however, in late August, it was boiling hot. She changed into shorts, undid the top two buttons of her short-sleeved blouse, and propped open a window.

She found a quill and parchment and began to write.

_Dear Mr. Malfoy,_

_Thank you for the lovely invitation. It was very sweet. However,_

No. That didn't sound right, and anyways, Narcissa was the one who'd invited her. She changed Mr. to Mrs., but it didn't help. Malfoy was the one who'd come to check to see if she was going.

Who was she writing to? The stalker or his mother?

She was so deep in pondering the issue of a polite rejection that she didn't even notice a whooshing sound from her fireplace.

"Trying to figure out the best way to reject me?" a familiar voice drawled. Hermoine nearly jumped out of her skin.

"Does the privacy of a person's home mean anything to you, Malfoy?" she asked hotly.

"If I say no, will you kill me?" he wondered, playing with a few loose threads on the armchair next to her and looking at her out of the corner of his eye.

"Yes," Hermoine ground out.

"Then yes, I'm very sorry I invaded your space," he muttered, waving her off.

"It's one thing to show up at my shop, Mr. Malfoy," she growled, getting to her feet. "But it is quite another to enter my home without permission. What the hell are you doing here, anyhow?"

He ignored her question. "Button up," he ordered.

"_What_?"

"Your shirt," he said slowly, as if he were speaking to a dimwit. "Button. Up. Your shirt, Granger." He moved to do it for her as she stood there, paralyzed, tasting Firewhiskey on his breath.

At that very moment Ronald Weasley entered.

His face turned a rather funny shade of red, but Malfoy calmly pushed her top button into its hole before turning to him.

"Weasley," he greeted. "Fancy seeing you here."

Ron appeared to be having trouble forming words.

"What the- you- and then- shirt," he sputtered, looking back and forth from Draco, who looked amused, to Hermoine, who had turned pink.

"Very modest girlfriend you've got there, Weasley," Malfoy said, with a shameless wink in Hermoine's direction. She turned from pink to red in an instant and shoved him.

"Get out," she ordered as he stumbled and fell. "You bloody drunkard, get out of my house." She glared at him as he got to his feet and staggered off to the fireplace. With a _whoosh _of emerald green flames, he was gone.

"Ron," Hermoine said slowly, turning to him, "that wasn't what it looked like. I had my shirt undone a little, because it's so hot, and…"

Ron looked at her balefully. She came and leaned into him. His arms circled her abdomen automatically and he sighed. "Are you sure?" he asked rather pitifully, his lips in her hair.

"Positive. If it had been the other way around, he'd have been dead." Ron laughed softly and kissed her cheek.

"Good. Hermoine…"

"Mm?"

"What are we going to do about this _ball_?" He said 'ball' as if it were 'Draco Malfoy'.

"Oh, I don't know," she muttered tiredly.

"I'll take you," he offered. "We haven't danced together in _ages, _Moine." His voice was coaxing, gently persuasive.

"Alright," she conceded after a time. He smiled and brought his lips to hers.

…

After Ron had left (she'd nearly had to kick him out) Hermoine stepped tentatively into the fireplace and shouted an instruction that she never thought she would.

"Draco's room, Malfoy Manor!"

**Final author's note: ooh, I am evil! Dun dun dun! You have to admit that was fun though, right? Was it fun? Cause I sure thought it was! Cliché, I know, but it's all the plot bunnies would give me, so yeah…**

**Okay, and another thing. This story has had, so far:**

**2 favorites**

**11 subscriptions to Story Alert**

**And 1 REVIEW.**

**That is so wrong. Thank you, James Birdsong, for being my lone reviewer!**

**I'm holding the next chapter hostage until I have at least five reviews. (I haven't written it yet, but once I do write it, it will not be posted until my ransom demands are met.)**

**So REVIEW, PEOPLE! **

**Love,**

**GLA**


	4. Chapter 3

**You guys answered my plea for reviews so well and the plot bunnies were positively screaming at me to write this down, so here it is. Chapter 3. Thanks, guys! I really appreciate all the reviews; they're such great motivators. **

**I don't own anything. **

He looked up from his place lounging on a sofa as she stepped from the fireplace into his bedroom.

"Well," he drawled, setting down his glass. "This is a nice surprise."

Hermoine chewed her lower lip nervously. Perhaps it hadn't been truly wise to visit a drunk idiot in his bedroom at eleven o' clock at night, but she had to chew him out. He had made her look like a slut in front of Ron, and he was going to pay.

Draco Malfoy chuckled, evidently sensing her apprehension. "Oh, Granger," he sighed, swinging his legs off of the sofa and crossing them in a relaxed manner, right foot resting on the floor. "You needn't worry. I'm perfectly sober," he assured her, patting the upholstery beside him.

She stayed where she was, several feet across the room, leaning against the chimney. "And why would you pretend?"

"Me? Pretend?" He grinned, faking a tone of innocent shock that made Hermoine grind her teeth. "My dear Granger, you're the one who called me a drunkard." He leaned back, placing his hands behind his head, smiling widely at her in amusement.

"You bastard," she spat. "Coming to my home and making me look like that…that was uncalled for."

He shrugged and took a sip of his drink. "And your coming to my home to yell at me is better…how?" he wanted to know, lifting his eyebrows at her over his glass.

"It's justified," she huffed, lifting her chin at him.

He rolled his eyes, muttering something she didn't quite catch.

"Sorry, what was that?" she demanded, looking at him sharply. "If you've something to say to me, Malfoy, then say it to my face rather than mumbling it to your imaginary friend like a madman."

"Geoffrey would like me to tell you that he takes offense," Draco told her, straight-faced.

"_What?"_

"My imaginary friend, Geoffrey."

"Oh, you—" she began hotly. He held up a hand to quiet her.

"Actually, what I was saying was that you're such a flirt, Granger."

"Am not! Malfoy, how dare you?" She scowled at him, appearing almost wounded.

"You know," he said softly, staring at her in a way that he knew would make her uncomfortable, "there are plenty of girls who would take that as a compliment."

"Well, I'm not plenty of girls," was her proud response. "I'm Hermoine Granger. I'm me."

"You certainly are, Granger," he murmured, still watching her. "You certainly are."

He took another sip of his drink.

Draco caught her looking at the glass curiously and tilted it so she could see. "It's wine, not firewhiskey. Would you like some?"

Hermoine gave a noncommittal shrug. He took it as a yes and got to his feet with a sigh, walking over to a long narrow shelf on the wall behind him. He brought her a glass of Chardonnay, being careful not to let his fingers touch hers when the delicate crystal piece changed hands.

"Thank you," she mumbled, looking down into her glass and swirling the liquid with a slight movement of her wrist. He sat down beside her on the hearth and clinked his glass against hers.

"To forgiveness," he offered, watching her. She ignored the toast and sipped delicately at her drink.

There was an awkward silence, which she broke. "You infuriate me," she declared (although she didn't sound terribly infuriated).

"And you me," he agreed (though he failed to sound particularly angry as well).

She shifted so she could see him better, propping her elbow on her knee and putting her chin in her hand. "If you ever show up at my home uninvited again, I'll jinx you so hard you'll never…" She trailed off, trying to think of a good ending to her threat.

"I'll never what?" he inquired in a low voice. She experienced that same sensation that had entered her that morning, when he'd been so close to her; her breath and heartbeat quickening. His head was leaned against the chimney, angled towards her, his nose nearly brushing hers. He was respecting her request that he not touch her, but only just.

"I don't know," she answered, intending it much louder than it came out; she almost whispered it. She noted Draco's hand moving towards her thigh, but then he seemed to remember what she'd snapped at him in the bookshop and snatched it back. She almost wished he hadn't. He smiled softly, looking almost regretful.

"Just…don't do it again," Hermoine almost pleaded after a moment of contented silence.

"I'll try to restrain myself." His voice, while joking, carried a hint of seriousness. It both surprised and confused her, but not enough to prevent her from pushing his hand away gently when he reached up to touch her face. He sighed, but withdrew.

"So," he said, arching his eyebrows. "_Will _you be joining us for the ball or not?"

"Yes," she replied. "I've decided to attend…_with Ron."_

Did he just flinch?

"Are you alright?" she asked anxiously, reaching out without thinking to brush his face with the very tips of her fingers. He took her wrist and lowered it gently, with her spreading her fingers out on his skin as he did so. He hesitated before gathering her hand in his own and returning it to her.

"I'm fine," he answered, but he sounded a bit as if he were choking on the words.

"No, you're not," she pressed. Her hand went to his far shoulder this time, her thumb tracing his clavicle. He closed his eyes briefly, and she wondered what was going through his head.

"Malfoy?" she whispered, widening her eyes sweetly. "What's going on?"

He didn't try to give her hand back this time. "Nothing is going on, Granger." His voice was calm, controlled, and firm. "And anyways," he continued, "since when do you care?"

She shrugged and removed her hand, drawing it across his collarbone towards her and off of the shoulder nearest to her. He watched her, shaking his head slowly. "Stop behaving this way. You're with Weasly, not me. Start acting like it." Hermoine smiled. It was nice to be able to make Draco feel uncomfortable a little. Giving him a taste of his own medicine, getting a turn being in control.

"I guess I'll be going then," she told him, getting to her feet. He looked down at the liquid in his glass, watching it lap the sides as he gave it a little shake.

He was still sitting there like that when she stepped into the fireplace and had it take her home.

**The next chapter is being held hostage, too. Five more reviews, guys! Pretty please?**

**Hope you liked it. Tell me if you did or not! *hint hint***


	5. Chapter 4

**You guys really responded so well with your reviews! I enjoyed every one of them. Thanks so much for being great R&Rers :P**

**None of Harry Potter is mine. Don't sue me. **

Draco sat on his hearth in the exact same position for some time. He closed his eyes and imagined he could feel her breath on his face, her hand sliding down his collarbone.

It wasn't fair, what she did. She was cruel to rub Weasley in his face and then touch him like that. How she had toyed with him! He deserved it, of course, but still.

_He _wasn't allowed to touch _her, _but her hands had full range of him.

He hated her at that moment, but it faded almost as quickly as it had come. It was only justice, after all.

He opened his eyes with a sigh, the girl he imagined sitting next to him vanishing with the dark behind his lids, and finished his wine. The clear, gold-tinted liquid no longer tasted good, and he tossed the glass behind him, into the fireplace, hearing it shatter against the brick with grim satisfaction. He wished he had responded differently to her arrival, to her…advance, he guessed it could be called.

She was Weasley's now, though, and despite his reputation, he wasn't going to try anything too terribly drastic while she was with him. It wasn't the redhead he was worried about; it was Granger. She'd probably kill him.

She was a formidable witch, if nothing else.

…

Hermoine was curled in her favorite armchair with a cheesy Wizarding romance novel. She liked to read the books she stocked, so she could make recommendations to her customers. She didn't care much for this particular book, but she could think of one or two of her regulars who would take to it gladly.

It wasn't helping.

She sighed and combed her fingers through her hair. Her hand was still tingling slightly where she'd slid it down Malfoy's collarbone. The top couple of buttons on his white shirt had been undone, so while most of him was covered, she'd touched the skin of his upper chest for a few inches. It was smooth and surprisingly warm; she'd always thought his pale skin would be cold to the touch, sort of like a snake's.

Not that she thought about touching him, of course.

At least not before that morning.

No. She was with Ron, and they loved each other. It wasn't like the teasing, tormenting relationship she had with Malfoy. She closed the book with a sound of firm finality.

"And that settles it," she said aloud.

…

Hermoine was awakened by the _whoosh _of the fireplace. It was a sound that was beginning to get on her nerves. She groaned and pulled a pillow over her head. _Not again._

She pretended to be asleep until she was nearly bounced out of bed by someone taking a flying leap onto the mattress. Her bedsprings sent her flying six inches into the air with a yelp. When she looked up, she saw (to her utter relief) Ginny Weasley sitting next to her on the bed.

"Ron wrote saying you were going to the ball together!" the redhead squealed.

Hermoine smiled. "I know. It's great, isn't it?" She felt a twinge of guilt about the night before, briefly feeling Malfoy's collarbone pressing into her palm, but pushed it away. She wasn't cheating on Ron. She had gone to chew him out and had ended up comforting him a little. There was no harm in that, was there?

"Well, Harry and I are going, too," Ginny smiled. "And guess what else?" She flashed her hand in front of Hermoine's face briefly, just enough for the elder girl to catch a glimpse of something shining on her fourth finger.

Hermoine gasped. "Gin, that's incredible!" she cried, hugging her best girlfriend tightly.

"Come on. I'm taking you shopping," Ginny declared. "We need dresses for the ball, and we might as well peek at one or two wedding dresses while we're out…"

"Gin, I can't. The shop," Hermoine protested.

"Take a day off," her friend scoffed. "You have ten minutes to dress. I'm timing you," she added, tapping her watch and leaving the room.

And so the two shopped.

Shopping with Ginny, while always entertaining, was not exactly a hobby of Hermoine's. Her friend was always trying to force her into hopelessly immodest garments that looked horrendous on her (though Ginny always insisted that they looked stunning).

"I'm choosing your dress for you," Ginny announced, steering Hermoine into a dressing room. "Stay right here."

"Do I get any input at all?" Hermoine whined, looking up at the redhead with pleading eyes.

Ginny considered this. "If you absolutely hate it, you don't have to wear it. If you don't care, and I love it, you're wearing it and that's that." Before her friend could protest, she had raced from the closet-sized space, cackling. Several heads turned to follow her red hair in her wake, and then she disappeared amongst the endless dress racks.

Hermoine groaned. How had she gotten herself into this? she wondered as she watched Ginny return with a hopeless mountain of dresses slung over her arm. She had Hermoine try them on one by one, scrutinizing. Sometimes she didn't even zip the dress before ordering her friend to try on the next one.

"Stop," Ginny said. "Wait." She stepped away from Hermoine and froze dramatically. "That's it, Moine. That is your dress."

"What are you talking about?" Hermoine put her hands on her hips and studied herself in the mirror.

The dress was pretty, sure, but it wasn't anything particularly special, especially not on her. She thought the skirt too short, the neckline too low.

"Don't you think it's a little—"

"No," Ginny cut her off. "I do not. That is your dress and you are going to wear it and be happy about it."

It was somewhat simple at the torso; it had ruffled off-the-shoulder straps made of a soft cream-colored fabric. (They resembled very large hair-scrunchies.) The dress itself was made of a smooth, spring-green silky material. It was smooth and fittederH at the bodice and abdomen, showcasing her slim waist, with a small ruffle of cream-colored fabric, to match the straps, at the neckline, which was V-shaped and lower than she would have liked. There was a wide sash settled on her waist of the same soft cream color as the neckline ruffle and straps, and below the sash an extremely ruffled, layered skirt, which matched the rest of the dress, extended to just above her knees.

"Don't you think it's a bit…" She trailed off when she saw the way Ginny was looking at her in the mirror: her trademark death glare.

"You look beautiful, now stop denying it," she scolded. "We're buying that dress. And now it's _my _turn," she added with a devilish grin.

In the end they bought the aforementioned dress for Hermoine and a gorgeous, simple, navy blue strapless number for Ginny. The two of them lunched in a small café, setting their garment bags on an empty chair and chattering away about the ball and Ginny's wedding. The redhead was just speculating dreamily about the flower arrangements when her eyes widened.

"Hermoine, don't turn around, but a certain old friend of ours seems to have popped in for a visit," she muttered around the straw of her iced tea. "Oh, shit, he's seen us. Don't look up, okay?"

_He?_

"Could that be Ginny Weasley?" drawled an all-too-familiar voice. "And look! Ms. Granger, a pleasure to see you again after last night," he all but purred. His hand brushed against his clavicle as he looked at her and she blushed, making him smirk.

Ginny looked back and forth between the two of them in bewilderment. _Last night? _she mouthed at Hermoine, who blushed even harder and mouthed _Bathroom _back at her. The redhead arched her eyebrows.

_Please? _Hermoine pleaded. Ginny sighed and stood up. "I'm going to the bathroom," she said, shooting Hermoine a _you owe me _look. The latter smiled apologetically and waited until she was out of sight.

Then she turned to Draco.

"What the _hell _are you doing here, Malfoy?" she demanded. "Have you been stalking me?"

"Why would I stalk _you, _Granger?" he inquired as if the statement were utterly repulsive. "Is it a crime for a man to go out for lunch once in a while?"

Her cheeks turned the color of fire engines and he chuckled softly. "Are you sure you just showed up in my bedroom to scream at me last night?" he breathed in her ear, arching his eyebrows suggestively.

"Positive," she snarled. "Get away from me." She shoved him aside and hurried to the bathroom after Ginny.

He shook his head, smiling. Getting a rise out of her was always entertaining. She seemed even more desirable when she was ready to rip his head off.

Was love always this violent?

And, more importantly, was it always this _fun?_

**Well? What did you guys think? Please let me know! Same review deal, but I'm not really worried about that, you all did so well last time. ^^**


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